Last Lesson
by M. B. Walsh
Summary: Minerva has always had the heart of a poet, even though she never realized it.  And, as her life is coming to a close, she can think of no better way to say all that she has learned in her life. rated K  for mature themes


Last Lesson

Minerva has always had the heart of a poet, even though she never realized it. And, as her life is coming to a close, she can think of no better way to say all that she has learned in her life.

December 21, 2013

Minerva lay quietly in her bed in the long term care ward of St. Mungo's Hospital. She was not asleep, she was looking out the window up at the sky. The was a pearly, pink quality to the blackness, and puffy snowflakes were dancing to the ground. Looking out at the world like this, she felt something like a bird in a cage: the sky seemed to invite her in, but she was barred in place. Minerva had been confined to her bed on the ward for nearly six months, and she didn't know how much more of it she could take.

She had been admitted scarcely a week after the end of term the previous June. About a year ago, it became boldly apparent that it would be Minerva's final year as Headmistress. Her rheumatism had become almost unbearable, some mornings she couldn't even get out of bed, and she had been plagued by terrible headaches. She knew that she was getting on in her years, but she still felt defeated by her inability to perform her duties as head of Hogwarts School. She had always imagined that she would simply go on teaching until, one day, when she'd just be gone. That was proving to be impossible, however. It took every last ounce of her strength to hold on through her last term. She had planned to stay a few weeks and rest at Hogwarts before leaving the school for good, but she didn't make it that long. One day she was lying in the sun, on a lounge by the lake when she simply passed out. It was a blessing the Professor Longbottom found her when he did, or there may not have been time to save her.

Once she came around at the hospital, she learned that her heart had nearly given out, and her kidneys were failing. A week later her test results came back, and she finally had a name for her illness.

_Lupus_

It was an affliction that presented mostly in muggle women, and it was almost unheard of in witches. The muggles had no cure, and, because it was so uncommon among witches, there was no magical cure either. They could treat her symptoms, but not much else, it would be like this to the end of her days. And her condition was so advanced, that may not be far off.

Minerva wasn't afraid of dying; so many she loved had gone before her; she knew that it would be okay. But still, she hadn't given it much thought in a long time. During the wars, she had made peace with the fact that she might be killed, but the war ended years ago. And, at any rate, getting killed was different than dying. Even if she had imagined death, it would not have been like this, confined to her bed, her days of teaching over for good.

Like nothing else, death made her think about her life. She had fought two wars and defended what she knew to be right, but that hardly seemed to matter, she was only one soldier. She had lived and loved and made terrible mistakes, but that too seemed insignificant. No, what really stood out was her time as a teacher. Minerva looked back, and hoped more than hope itself that she had made a difference, and shaped the lives of her students, the children that she had never had.

And, For the first time, looking out at the falling snow, Minerva truly realized that she would never teach again. That, more than anything else, spelled her impending death. She thought of all the students at Hogwarts, most of them home for Christmas by now, and longed teach them more' anything that she had to offer them. She wanted to paint for them a true picture of life, so they could see how beautiful it was. But, she didn't know how. Her classroom was a long way away, in a different time, and a letter would never do this justice.

As a last resort, she picked up her quill and paper, and she began to write. She wrote as if her life depended on it, while in reality, so much more did. This was her last chance at immortality, to leave a bit of herself in the world after she was gone. And if she could touch the heart of just one person with her teaching, it life would be worth living.

She wrote all night, and just as the sun peaked over the horizon to light the world, baptized in fresh snow, Minerva set down her quill and closed her eyes.

December 22, 2013

A young healer walked down the long term care ward, checking on the patients that morning. She stopped in front of Minerva's bed. She had known Minerva many years, first as her teacher, and later as her patient. It was out of character for Minerva to be asleep, even at this hour of the morning.

The young healer inched up beside Minerva's bed a cold, terrible knot twisting in her stomach.

There was a moment of crashing realization when she realized that the witch that she so admired was gone. She had lost patients before, but none of them had been like this. She truly felt as though she had failed the women who had taught her so much. She stood for several moments in stunned silence before she noticed the parchment folded in Minerva's hands. She released it gently for her grasp and began to read.

_For Those Who Wish to See_

_The day is fresh, new, promising. The feeling of springtime seems to sing with the very trees in the wood._

_The delicate flowers of springtime are all around you, perfuming the air with their sweet scent._

_High above your head blazes the sun. Both beautiful and terrible, it shines it's light exposing all there is to be seen_

_The trees spread their leaves to shield you from the harsh rays. They stand century, making you a sanctuary in which to learn and grow._

_In the shadow of the trees there grows a rose bush; it's leaves have just begun to spread out, the tiny buds that will one day be flowers are forming._

_All that is in the world is at perfect harmony, moving and breathing as one. All is peaceful._

_This is the world you grow in. The trees whisper their secrets as you see and learn and grow._

_The rose bush has grown, it's leaves are spread ready to feel the warmth of the sun, any moment the buds will burst into beautiful flowers._

_A war wind blows through the trees; it calls you on down the path through time itself. The breeze sings a song, and you desperately want to join._

_The path winds on, and the trees begin to thin. The sun shines through the gaps in the leaves; it shines brightly and warms your skin._

_Finally you reach the edge of the trees. There before you lays the world. The sweet breeze beckons you foreword while something in the song of the trees makes you want to stay._

_There is nothing barring your way back into the shelter of the woods, but something in you knows that you can't go back. Now that you've seen the light you can't go back into the dark._

_You take your first steps out from the shelter of the trees. The sun heats your skin, startling you with the strength of its rays._

_The buds of the rose bush burst into beautiful flowers. The flowers can see the world now and feel the wrath of the elements._

_There is no path before you. You must blaze one for yourself. You hold your life in your own hands._

_As you walk you become accustomed to the light. Now you realize the shadows. Shadows that hide deceit form questioning eyes._

_At times curiosity draws you towards the shadows. You have to turn back towards the light; you leave the shadows behind._

_The rose bush grows and changes every day. Insects trouble the rosebush and it discovers it has thorns to fend off the unwanted._

_The future is there for you to shape although at times it seems easier to change the past. But, we can never go back we can only go forward._

_As you walk, others cross your path leaving footprints in your mind and heart. They give you what they can and you give of yourself in return._

_Many a person passes by the rosebush as well. They take a rose from among the branches and leave a blossom of their own in its place._

_Soon the world around you begins to change; the leaves of the distant trees glow orange and red. Birds fly south leaving the land they know so well._

_You can remember what it was to be a bird on her first fight out of the woods. You wish her luck as she flies out into the world ready to make her own way._

_The leaves of the rosebush change to vibrant red. The blossoms wither and fall to the ground, and in their place are tiny red rose hips._

_You continue walking on and on. Though storms rage around you and cold wind bites your cheeks you do not stop._

_The cold wind bombards the rosebush, but the rose bush stands firm. It wins the fight and is stronger for it._

_You cross one last field. When you reach the other side you see a cliff and below the cliff a lovely rocky beach._

_Snow dusts the clearing where the rosebush lies. The rose bush sleeps now. It waits for springtime when it can spread it's leaves and live again._

_You stand on the beach and before you is the vast ocean. The green waves crash onto the sand drawing it into its crystal depths._

_The sun is setting of over the ocean. This brief day is drawing to a close, but the promise of a bright new tomorrow hangs in the air._

_You stand at the water's edge. The waves tickle your toes inviting you into the vast waters that hold so many secrets._

_You walk into the lovely water and begin to swim towards the setting sun. You long to see this new and mysterious world, and for those who wish to see, the world waits._

_- M. McGonagall_

The young healer holds the poem in trembling hands. She had always looked up to professor McGonagall, seen her a role model. They had been close, Minerva had been her head of house, so she had guided her through many important decisions in her life, choosing a career path and finding a job. But, it was not until now that she the real Minerva, the Minerva who would pour out her heart for all the world with her closing breaths.

The young women suddenly felt very alone. She had never really known the woman that she had so looked up to, and now it was too late. All she had was this last poem to… to do what. I felt like a message, Minerva would never say something so deep without a purpose, but what did it say…what did it really say?

There was no address, no intended recipient. So they young witch did the only thing that seemed appropriate to do. She showed it to anyone and everyone. She knew that there was a lesson to it, and she hoped to learn it one day, but until then, she would simply pass it along.

_**author's note: First, anything recognizable belongs to JK Rowling. Second, I originally wrote this poem for an English assignment, it later inspired this story. Third, I wrote this story right after my own diagnosis with Lupus. Now, six months later, I'm finally getting around to publishing it. I'm thankful to report that I am currently responding very well to treatment, and am likely to be in remission by next year. Hopefully this confirms that I am by no means making fun of this disease. If anyone is offended, please leave a review to voice your concerns. _

_***Dedication: This Fiction is dedicated to all who suffer from lupus. It truly is an underappreciated condition. If you don't know what lupus is, or would like to learn more about it Google "Lupus Foundation of America". _


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